ver / tig / i / nous
1: I lose consciousness like a white sheet
flashing on the line,
untethered by the wind,
pins harebrained as grasshoppers.
2: First a corner motions distress,
fluttering a top hem in the
periphery of the crosscurrents
at the bus station, weak with hunger.
3: Then my wobbling, shuffle-feet, so much
for the coiled fulcrum, half the pins
are gone, cotton snapping in a deranged tango,
my head a blister of bloodloss.
4: One pin remains; I am woozy with the toga.
The dizziness is extreme. I slide a tray
along the bars at a rest-stop cafeteria,
slosh of portal juice in my ears.
5: My eyes are opened to the glare of cellophane,
flapping white sheet, a different kind of godliness.
The pin unpins. The sheet unfurls my skullcap.
I am lightheaded with stairs rising anonymous.
6: I grapple for a handhold. The expanse of sheet
unmoors, loose in the air like dissolution.
I am separated from the drapery crumbling of
my body, heaped on the cold tile floor.
7: Consciousness returns its secret closet. A night
manager hovers on one knee, tenting my lower limbs.
Space is bright with vacuum; I guess at evacuated
minutes. Another traveler takes my place in line.